Sun Mote Copse the bent-neck lady

HELLO FRIEND. I MISSED YOU.

When weaker creatures faltered and fell prey to winter's ills, Aklark thrived. Scarsity starved the prey. Bodies weakened and bogged down in the snow, death was abound, and where there was death, there was food. A doe had succumb to some unknown ailment, falling still and freezing in the late autumn slip. Aklark unearthed her cold and frozen body with an exploratory muzzle. Sniffing. Smelling. He pulled her by the neck and freshly fallen snow slid from the corpse like water rolling off a duck's back. He stepped over the body and tore into the flesh -- ripping into the doe's sunken abdomen.

The old Tartok addage still rang true in the bear-wolf's wild heart, despite leaving the life behind him in the cruel, uncaring north. The strong surive -- and so they did, doing whatever it took to forge a path into tomorrow, bleak as it was. If he had to scavenge, so be it; one could not hunt alone. Yet, Aklark suffered this indignity with pride. No more would he mill about, following "leaders" who could hold no stable claim over the south. 

Something had changed. Be it he or Tartok, Aklark did not think to ask himself. However, one thing was certain. His home was no longer among them. Their ideals were no longer his own.

Muzzle smeared with blood and bile, Aklark raised his head and rolled his ears forward. A sound. A scent. Protective of his corpse, Aklark stood above the body, claiming it with a settled paw and bared teeth.